I’m so tired. I’m all by myself.
I just want understanding from someone else.
So I write bad poetry to make everything alright,
when I can’t sleep at night.
I have hate here, and I have rage
and I have finished another page.
I want to close my eyes but
my eyes won’t go shut.
Because I long for something good
To come and heal me if it could.
I know that, at least some days,
I’m relatively faultless in my ways,
that someone patient could love me
that I could make him happy
and he would need me like I need him.